


Well Suited for Each Other

by RooBadley



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: (is domestic bliss just another way of saying fluff?), Cussing, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of Covid, So Many Suits, Suits, i'm proud of my life choices, playing dress up, seriously it's just Baz trying on all his suits, that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29208495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RooBadley/pseuds/RooBadley
Summary: Lockdown Part II sees the lads feeling frustrated, burnt-out, and down. Simon makes a bold suggestion: Baz should try on all his suits to cheer himself up.  Gratuitous descriptions of menswear ensue.Fashion show. *polite applause*
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 22
Kudos: 92





	Well Suited for Each Other

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/gifts).



> Thank you, [aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias), for being supremely encouraging of my writing within the fandom. I'm truly sorry I seem to have written you fluff. 
> 
> This fic stemmed from a conversation in the comments of one of my other works, [Use Your Words](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27087610/chapters/66141610) about how we would both happily read a fic that was a few thousand words of Baz trying on all his various suits. Then I couldn't get the idea out of my head and this happened.

**Simon**  
It’s been a rough several months. COVID hit, the country went into lockdown, then came out of lockdown, then went back into lockdown _again_ because nobody seems to be able to follow basic safety protocol, and also pandemics don’t just magically disappear. Or _magickally_ disappear. (Not that the Coven isn’t trying.) 

Baz practically refuses to let me out of the flat. He insists on doing all the shopping himself, since he can’t get sick. He’s so worried he’ll bring the virus back to me that he not only wears a mask, gloves, and ties his hair up, but he also showers as soon as he’s back, and wipes down all the groceries himself. 

It’s infuriating. But right now, I know it’s how he shows his love. So I let him have control of this. We’ve lost control of so much else. Everyone has.

He still goes out to hunt, and a few times I’d use that as a chance to sneak up to the roof and fly, but it’s tricky. There’s too much monitored airspace over London. Baz caught me the last time I tried, and his voice was so wracked with worry it took all the fun out of it. I haven’t tried again since.

Sometimes, back when the weather was nice, we’d go down to the park and kick a football around, but as soon as more than three other people show up, Baz shuts it down and shuffles me off towards home. We do a lot of puzzles together. Watch a lot of box sets. And we do workouts at home to try and stay healthy. I never thought we’d be spelling all the furniture out of the way to do something called “50 Minute At Home Pilates Work Out Sexy Butt, Abs, Arms!!!” on youtube, and yet, here we are. 

It’s been hard on both of us, but after spending most of my life feeling overwhelmed and out of control, this whole awful situation has been oddly familiar for me. It’s been a good deal harder on Baz. 

He’s awake now, even though it’s far too early, and he’s banging around inside his wardrobe after a shower. He’s not an early riser by nature. But that’s what lockdown does. It makes a mockery of all our sleep schedules. 

“I don’t even know why I _bother_ ,” Baz grumbles to himself.

He comes out looking more pouty than usual, which is quite an accomplishment. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask, pushing myself up a little further in bed.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep, Snow."

“No, tell me. What’s wrong? You were grumping around in there about something.” 

He sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, and rubs at my feet and ankles where they hide beneath the duvet. 

“It’s a stupid, ridiculous, first-world problem, love. It’s not worth complaining about. We’re so fortunate. I’m so grateful we’re getting through this safely.” 

“… _but_?”

He drags his tongue along the point of one canine and looks away from me, avoiding eye contact. 

“I miss having a reason to wear a suit,” he says quietly, before sighing. “I told you, it’s the most ridiculous, self-obsessed, first-world problem—” 

I pull myself the rest of the way up in bed and lean forward, grabbing his knee and squeezing. 

“You’re allowed to find this frustrating for whatever reason you find it frustrating. Normalcy has been thrown out the window. It’s ok to mourn both the big and the little things we’re missing.” 

He finally turns to look at me. His grey eyes soft and sad.

“Did you get that from therapy?”

“Yeah. Of course,” I laugh, and he laughs too, but it’s high and tight and full of stress.

“Baz…” I say. “I have an idea.” 

“Burn the suits? Alright. That does sound cathartic.” 

“No, you pyromaniac. Not everything can be solved by setting things on fire. I was going to say I think you should wear one today.” 

“A suit?” 

“No. A koala costume. Yes, a suit.”

“What, just around the flat?” he sneers. 

“Yeah. Put one on. I know you feel confident when you wear them. They make you feel good about yourself, and that has value.”

“So, I’d be wearing a suit around the flat for no good reason? Sounds a bit pathetic to me.” He picks a bit of nonexistent lint off his shirt, flicks it to the ground.

“No. You’d be wearing it around the flat because it makes you feel confident and good. There’s nothing pathetic about that.” 

He grumbles and pushes off from the bed, then walks into the wardrobe. He’s magicked it into a walk-in, so he disappears quickly into it’s depths. That’s what we use our magic for now, keeping mugs of tea warm and creating storage space in a central London flat. It makes me miss the kind of grand, daring magic we’d do at Watford. Although, I suppose conjuring storage space in a central London flat is a fairly remarkable and impressive feat. 

Baz emerges a short while later wearing a gorgeous, dark blue, three piece suit, with a slim black tie. There’s the tiniest smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Crowley, you look incredible.” 

“I know,” he says, inspecting himself in the mirror. He smooths his jacket, undoes and redoes the buttons.

I love him in a suit. But he looks fit no matter what he’s wearing, joggers, jeans, even the shorts he’d wear in the summer when we went to kick around a football. _Especially_ the shorts he’d wear in the summer when we went to kick around a football. I’m the least picky boyfriend you could imagine. It’s all good. It’s Baz, so of course it is. He looks good in anything. In nothing.

I swallow, and my tongue feels heavy in my mouth. I think I’ve just had a wicked, wonderful idea. 

“Uh, Baz?” I ask, as he continues looking at himself critically in the mirror. 

“Yes, Snow?” 

“How many suits do you have in there?”

“Many,” he replies, adjusting the knot in his tie.

“I think you should try them all on.” 

He pivots slowly on his heel and turns to look at me. 

“You’d like me to try on all of my suits?” 

“Yeah. You know. To make sure you choose the right one to wear today,” I can barely suppress my smile. 

“You’d like me to try on _all_ of my suits?” he asks again, eyebrow raised, his grey eyes dancing.

“Not all at the same time, mind, but yes. All of them,” I reply. I jut out my chin and stare him down. “Again, just to make sure you choose the right one.”

“I…suppose I could do that,” he answers, eyebrow still ratcheted up his damn perfect forehead. 

He returns back into his closet. 

Yessssssssss. I fluff up the pillows behind me. This will be good.

He emerges a moment later in a devilishly trim-cut black suit, white shirt, and a black tie. Fuck me, he looks good. 

“Thoughts? Comments? Opinions?” he asks with a smirk. 

My mouth is suddenly very, very dry. 

“That one’s alright,” I manage to croak out, eventually. He smiles and it’s full of mischief. 

“Just alright? Well, I’ll have to try a little harder with the next one, then, won’t I?” He throws me a look that can only be described as threatening before he disappears back into the wardrobe.

Oooh, this is good. This was an exceedingly good idea. I rather wish I’d made myself a cuppa before this started so I could sit and sip and watch. I wonder if there’s time to slip out and do that while he’s getting changed. 

Before I can decide, he returns. This time he’s in a deep, emerald green velvet suit with a black shirt and tie. It would definitely look naff on most people, but on Baz it looks gorgeous. 

“Better?” he asks slyly, a smirk on his gorgeous mouth. 

“Looks like the fabric feels nice.” I hope he gets my meaning.

“Very.” He didn’t get my meaning. He’s still on the other side of the fucking room. Come here and let me touch you, you great towering idiot.

“Come on, then. Give us a feel,” I say, nodding at him. He saunters painfully slowly to the side of the bed, and once there, pops the centre button on his suit jacket and pulls the side of it open to give me just the briefest peek of a deep purple lining. 

I reach out and let my fingers play across the plush velvet of his jacket. It feels gorgeous. Then I slip my hand inside and run it along the cool satin lining.

“I like this one. Very much.” 

“Well, perhaps we have our winner for the day.” 

“Maybe. But we’re only a couple suits in, and I’ve never known you to be a quitter. Keep going,” I say, patting him on the stomach. He rolls his eyes, but returns to the wardrobe. 

“I’m going for something tonally different from the last,” he says, reappearing in a very nice, grey suit with a floral shirt beneath. He’s left the top few buttons of the collar undone, revealing the beautiful, sharp divot where his collarbones meet. It takes me a moment to recognise the suit. 

“Wait, isn’t that one mine?” I ask. 

“Indeed. **_Fits like a glove_** does wonders for tailoring, doesn’t it?” he says, giving a little turn and looking at his rear in the mirror. He started the morning so grumpy, but he seems lighter in spirit now. I can’t tell if it’s due to the fashion show or the attention or what. 

The beauty of **_fits like a glove_** is that we have twice the wardrobe because of it. Well, _I_ have twice the wardrobe. I don’t think Baz would be caught dead in much of my clothing. Not unless he needed a fancy dress costume that made him look like A Man Who Has Zero Fucks To Give. It works out well for me because Baz buys suits, and then whenever I need to borrow one for an important meeting, or a date night, we just spell them to fit. 

“It’s not _bad_ ,” I say, shrugging. “It’s just not _you_ , you know?”

“If I’m wearing it, it’s me.”

“Confidence is sexy, but try another.” 

Moments later he emerges in a dark red wool suit. It’s lush and gorgeous against his skin and hair. 

“And on what occasion would you wear this, Mr Grimm-Pitch?” I ask, holding my chin and nodding thoughtfully. 

“Perhaps to the shops to pick up some milk?” he answers, sliding his hand into his pocket and looking confused, before extracting something small. 

It’s a boiled sweet in a plastic wrapper. 

“Clearly _you_ were the last to wear this.” He tosses the sweet towards me and shoots me a look. It’s not a mean look. It’s his look that says _I’m going to pretend this bothers me, because society has conditioned me to do so, but I actually find it quite endearing._ He’s always giving me that look.

I unwrap the sweet and pop it into my mouth. Still good. 

“Alright, now show me something _completely_ different."

He rolls his eyes at me. “So demanding,” he laughs and trots back into the wardrobe. He’s in there for a while, and when he emerges I can’t help the laughter that explodes from me. 

“A _kilt_?! You own a bloody _kilt?!_ ” 

He owns a bloody kilt. And it looks infuriatingly good on him. That utter bastard. 

“How?….why?! What?!” I can’t stop laughing, I just can’t. Baz joins in and it’s a full, deep laugh. Some tight, nervous thing that I hadn’t even realised was bunched in my chest cracks and releases at the sound of it.

“I think it was a second cousin’s wedding or some such. Up in the Highlands. They insisted.” 

“Oh, of course. _They_ insisted. Right.” I raise my eyebrows at him knowingly. I know the truth. Any excuse for menswear from this one.

“They did!” Baz throws his hands in the air in a show of innocence and we both start laughing again. 

“I do look good though, don’t I?” he says, low, eyeing himself in the mirror again. Then he gives me a little wink and a spin, so his kilt flies up, before heading back into the wardrobe. 

Crowley, this is fun. Why have we never done this before? Would he want me to do this for him? I could try on all my assorted trackie bottoms and joggers. It would take 5 minutes max, and I’d be dead comfy at the end. 

He steps back out in a black suit, different from the one he had on earlier, but I decide to wind him up a bit. It’s good for me to wind him up. Healthy.

“Already seen that one, Baz. Gi’us a new one.” 

“You have not already seen this one! This is Spencer Hart,” he says, indignantly, before muttering to himself. “Same suit indeed. _Entirely_ different cut to the lapels…”

“Nah, it’s the same one, mate!” I’m heckling him loudly. My smile hurts my face, but he’s too busy getting irritated with me to notice.

“I never should’ve expected someone who’s half-numpty to be able to tell the difference,” he grumps. Then he strides over to where I’m sitting up in bed. He’s all leg, so it only takes him three long steps.

“Look! The lapels are entirel—” I don’t let him finish his sentence. I grab him by his damn “entirely different” lapels and pull him down into a kiss. He kisses me back, but just as I start to slip him the tongue he remembers himself, and shoves up off the bed. 

“Snow! This is too nice a suit!” 

“Oi! You saying the suit’s more important than your boyfriend?” 

“That’s precisely what I’m saying. I could sell the suit for a tidy sum. Wouldn’t even get a tenner for you…” he laughs, jogging back off to the wardrobe as I reach out to slap him on the bum. I miss and my arm flails uselessly through the air. Damn it all. 

“Next, please!” I shout once he’s back in the wardrobe. I’m enjoying being demanding this morning. I’m enjoying this comfortable place we’re digging out for ourselves amongst the frustrations and worries and woes.

“Ok, well, now you’re just taking the piss, because that’s _definitely_ the same suit from before,” I laugh, as he reappears. 

“Yes, it is,” Baz laughs, before adjusting his tie. “But you see, I’ve styled it completely differently. It’s a versatile suit.” 

He has styled it differently. Black suit, black shirt, black tie, blood red pocket square. 

“You look like a vampire,” I start to laugh, but before I get very far he’s at my side (vampire speed), fangs dropped, menacing me. He’s tangled the fingers of one hand in my hair, and is holding my shoulder in place gently with the other. He slowly, oh so slowly, tugs on my curls to bend and expose my neck. Then he brings his mouth to my flesh.

“Well, love, that’s because I _am_ a vampire…” he whispers against my skin, before kissing me gently there. It’s a chaste kiss, but I can feel his fangs filling his mouth even in spite of his closed lips. I’d quite like him to continue, to drag him into bed with me and get distracted for a while, but he pulls away all too quickly. 

Fine. Fine.

“Next!” I clap. “Entertain me!”

He laughs from deep inside the wardrobe. 

I like seeing him like this, though. I love it when he’s smiling and laughing. When he lets himself loosen up and be free. He’s always handsome, but when he smiles or laughs? Well, that absolutely lights my guts on fire. 

Next is a very nice blue suit in what he calls a window pane check. 

Then a shiny silvery one that he says is something called sharkskin. 

“Is it made of real shark skin? That seems unfair to the sharks.”

He looks at me as if I’ve just stuck my hand in the soup bowl. 

“No, darling, it’s made of fabric. Sharkskin refers the process by which the threads are…you know what? Sure, let’s say it’s actual shark’s skin.” 

“Looks good. Shiny.” 

He turns and twists his torso. So shiny.

His next suit is purple. He’s paired it with a checked shirt and a black tie with small white dots. He’s just taking the piss, now. 

“How does that look good on you? This outfit should categorically make you look like a clown, but you look so damn fit,” I say. It’s infuriating. Is it all in his confidence? His posture? He’s standing, shoulders back, chest out, one hand tucked into his pocket. That must be it. It’s a posture thing. “Nobody should look that good in a purple suit.”

“It’s dusty aubergine.” 

“Right, yes, of course. How silly of me. That's clearly _d_ _usty aubergine_.” I nod seriously, not at all mocking him. Dusty aubergine _indeed_. 

“Whatever it is, you look great in it. Even though you should look like an idiot.”

“It’s called power clashing, darling.”

He leaves and reappears again, a broad smile across his face. I feel like he’s come back to me over the course of the morning, bit by little bit. 

“That’s a tartan suit.” 

It’s dark, all shades of black and grey. He’s wearing it with a black velvet waistcoat and a dark grey tie. 

“No, it’s a plaid suit. Subtle, but important, difference.”

“Why haven’t I seen it before?”

He sighs as he looks at himself in the full length mirror. 

“That’s because it’s new. Though, I suppose it’s not really new anymore. I bought it in March of last year, just before this whole awful thing started. Never had a chance to wear it out.” 

“So wear it.”

“To what end?” he shrugs. 

“Wear it to make me a cuppa. Then you’ll have worn it for something productive,” I smile. 

He laughs at me. 

“Are you just trying to get me to make you tea?”

“Maybe,” I say, sliding further down the bed and nestling into the soft duvet. “But also, I’m helping cheer you up by giving you purpose. A mission.”

“You seem to have mistaken my needs for yours. I don’t need a mission, Simon. I’m quite content to sit around all day looking louche and gorgeous.” We both know that’s utter shite.

“Make me a cuppa anyway? Strong?”

He moves to the side of the bed, stands over me, and I can’t tell if I’m in trouble or not. 

Then he pushes back my curls and stoops to kiss me on my forehead. “Anything for you,” he whispers against my skin.

I don’t deserve him. 

Yes I do. We deserve one another. I’ve helped him get a bit of himself back this morning, and he’s making me a cup of tea. We’re good for one another. In the big ways and the little ways. All the ways that count.

I hope he remembers biscuits.

Baz returns a moment later with a steaming mug in his hands. He’s clutching it tight, stealing it’s warmth. He hands me the mug, then runs his newly warmed hands over my forehead, cheeks, and the curve of my jaw. I moan and lean into his touch. So warm. So different. 

“No biccies?” I pout. 

He pulls his jacket to the side and gestures at the bulging pocket of his trousers. 

“Baz, is that a packet of chocolate Hobnobs in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?” 

He smirks and wags his eyebrows. “Why don't you reach in and find out?” 

Chocolate Hobnobs. 

He disappears into the wardrobe once again. I love him so much, and I don’t think I do a good enough job telling him. I need to be better about it. I need to show him. 

“ _Holy fuckin…_ ” He’s just stepped out wearing a deep, rich red brocade suit with black flowers all over it, with a black shirt unbuttoned practically down to his navel. “Fucking hell…” 

I have to hurry to set my mug of tea on the bedside table. I’m worried I’ll tip it all over myself. 

Baz laughs, low in his throat. “You’ve had such a subtle reaction to this one, love. Tell me how you really feel.” 

“Come ‘ere and let me _show you_ how I feel about this one…” It practically comes out as a growl. 

He takes a step towards me, then undoes another button on his shirt so it actually _is_ unbuttoned down to his navel. Then he raises an eyebrow, turns on his heel and walks back into the wardrobe. 

“You’re a right bastard!” I call after him. 

“I know, love!” he calls back, his voice muffled as he changes. 

He returns in a deep red suit with lots of silver embroidered detailing on the cuffs. We have clearly reached the ostentatious section of his wardrobe.

“Hoooo, that one looks expensive.”

“It was,” he replies, shooting his cuffs. “It’s McQueen.”

“How much?”

“A gentleman never tells.” He locks his grey eyes on mine. If he thinks I’m going to give him a lecture on how to spend his damn Old Family money he is quite mistaken. He can buy a thousand heavily decorated McQueen suits if it makes him happy. 

“However much it was, it was worth it. You look great. You’d look great in a charity shop suit, though. It’s not the suit, it’s the wearer.” 

He smiles, and it’s a wide, gorgeous, nearly feral thing. I think for a moment he might crawl up the bed towards me, but no. He returns back to the closet. 

He’s in there for a while, and when he returns, he’s wearing the suit. THE suit. The suit with the beautiful, fat rose blossoms all over it. He bought one on our trip to America with Bunce, the one where we met Shepard. Then it got all torn and blown to shit during the fallout with the Next Blood and Lamb. So, when we got back to the UK and the dust settled I bought him a new one. It was well worth going into my stash of Leprechaun gold to do it. He’s always worth it.

“ _There_ you are,” I say to him, reaching out with both hands and gesturing for him to come to me. He does. He sits down beside me on the bed and traces his fingers along my jaw.

“This. This is the suit,” I whisper into the curve of his neck. 

We nuzzle against one another for a moment. I breathe against his cheek, trying to warm him. 

“I love you, Baz.” 

“I love you too, Simon. Thank you for suggesting this. It was a good idea. I do feel better.” 

I kiss his neck. 

“Good, I’m glad. Now, what shall I wear today? Choose a suit for me.” 

Baz pulls away and holds me at arm’s length. She stares at me dubiously. 

“You hate wearing suits.”

“Yes, but I love _you_ ,” I say, pushing against where he’s holding me to try and kiss him. “And I’ve fought off chimeras, the Humdrum, the Mage, vampires, and depression to be with you. So let’s get dressed, make breakfast, and then sit around the flat looking handsome for one another. Don’t we deserve that?” 

He kisses me. It’s a long kiss. One with lots of breathy stops and starts and desperate grabbing hands. It takes a while for us to detach from one another. 

“You’re too good to me, Simon.” 

“I know. Now pick a suit before I change my mind.” 

**Baz**

Simon continues to look stunning in a grey suit. 


End file.
